


keep a weather eye

by belovedmuerto



Series: An Experiment in Apathy [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst?, EiE, Gen, Greg is angry and caring, John isn't around, M/M, Mycroft is mostly just mentioned, Sherlock is confused, and being an arse, empath!John, experiment in apathy, experiment in empathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg doesn’t like being lied to, and he doesn’t like being manhandled or manipulated, and he especially doesn’t like being left in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	keep a weather eye

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta Castiron. You rock.
> 
> Next part might take a bit, as it's a busy time of year for me, and also I haven't quite figured out how or where I'm going to start it!
> 
> And I'm not sure I've ever mentioned this, but if you are into that sort of thing, you can follow me on tumblr. I'd say I post status updates and whatnot there, but I don't much. I do beg for prompts sometimes though. You can find me under the same name there as here.

Greg doesn’t like being lied to, and he doesn’t like being manhandled or manipulated, and he especially doesn’t like being left in the dark. Dealing with Holmeses, it’s something he’s got used to over the past several years, because if there’s anything those two are good at, it’s lying, manhandling, manipulating, and considering everything ‘need to know’, but that doesn’t make him bristle any less when it happens.

He had hoped that he and Mycroft had got beyond that, beyond Mycroft being imperious and this-is-need-to-know-and-you-don’t about things, beyond him being steered from place to place like someone’s favorite pawn. Apparently not.

He’d been asleep already when Mycroft showed up in the wee small hours of the morning. This isn’t anything new; Greg spends more nights at Mycroft’s than he does at his own flat, these days, and Mycroft often doesn’t get in until later than either of them likes. There’s a certain excitement to him, a faint tremor of triumph, that Greg had only barely noticed in his mostly asleep state, when Mycroft crawled into bed with him. It hadn’t registered strongly enough to rouse him to question the man.

Clearly, it should have.

This morning he’d been unceremoniously yanked out of bed by the Mycroft he thought didn’t exist for him anymore, the one who trots him out like a puppet and tells him what to do and then sends him on his merry way to do as he is bid, and smile about it.

Greg is not smiling. He is wearing Mycroft’s shirt, which is too everything for him: too big, too small, too posh, and he is wearing Mycroft’s tie, which he’s been informed--a bid to distract him, along with the kiss that accompanied it, he can see now--is far more flattering on him than on Mycroft, and he is wearing yesterday’s trousers and a pair of silk pants that definitely aren’t his. If it weren’t for how angry he is, he’d probably be getting a lot more enjoyment out of that particular item. 

He is exhausted and it’s his goddamn day off, so why is he in the back of a car being swept across town to Baker Street instead of in bed asleep like a normal bloke? Or, possibly even better, taking advantage of the frankly extravagant espresso machine in Mycroft’s kitchen? Or, even better than that, taking advantage of Mycroft? Why is he wearing a tie? Why isn’t he in jeans? Why isn’t he trying to coax Mycroft into skiving off for the day?

He doesn’t know the answer to any of those questions, but he and his... whatever Mycroft is... are going to be having words. If a man spends more nights in your bed than in his own, he’s entitled to being treated like something other than the hired fucking help, right?

\----

The car drops him right outside 221 Baker Street, and Greg sighs heavily before crossing the pavement to knock on the door.

Mrs Hudson lets him in, and he can see immediately that there’s something wrong. Not that she doesn’t usually let him in, but the expression on her face is eloquent, and nowhere near the pleasantness with which she usually greets him. She doesn’t immediately offer him a cup of tea, which she always does, and that’s another clue. Greg has a few pointed thoughts about his own intelligence and how often it is underestimated while he tries to smile reassuringly at her. 

“I can’t go up there, not when he’s like this, Detective Inspector.” She is wringing her hands together, looking worried and exasperated at the same time. “I don’t know what’s got into him, or where John is. John can always calm him down when he’s in a strop. I swear, if he’s broken all the dishes it’s going straight on his rent.”

Greg soothes her as best he could. “I’m sure everything will be fine. I’ve got some nice, brutal cold cases for him to look at--” And he winces at the words, but Mrs Hudson is well used to Sherlock, his peculiarities, and his predilection for gruesome crimes; she simply pats him on the arm and sends him upstairs, looking immensely relieved that someone else is around to deal with her petulant tenant.

Greg surveys the disaster area that had once been recognizably the lounge. It has been destroyed, and Greg can’t help but wonder what John would have to say about this, were he here to see the mess. He can almost see what John’s expression would be. 

The bison skull hangs crooked on the wall. There are papers everywhere, both of the chairs are overturned, there’s a mutilated pillow on the floor, stuffing everywhere, and the kitchen, when Greg glances that way, is a mess of shattered glass and dishware.

“Sherlock, what the fuck is going on? You’ve frightened the hell out of your landlady.” He puts his hands on his hips and his best “I’m dealing with a child” expression on his face and looks at Sherlock--

\--and doesn’t say another word for several very long minutes. He doesn’t know what _to_ say. His hands fall away from his hips, and he sighs.

_Oh. That’s what._

“Shit.” Greg picks his way across the room--he’s pretty sure he steps on and breaks a couple of vinyl records--and sits down next to Sherlock on the sofa.

After a while, Sherlock looks up at him. He looks devastated. Hollow. Like his whole world has crashed down around his ears.

“So, what happened?” Greg asks. He hadn’t got any details from Mycroft, only that he needed to come over to check on Sherlock, and that Mycroft couldn’t do it himself, not this time. Greg hadn’t known if that was a result of their normal, contentious (at least on the surface, at least on Mycroft’s part) relationship, or if Mycroft had something to do with why Sherlock looks like he’s just lost his best friend, his puppy, and his parents all in the same day.

But instead of answering his question, Sherlock narrows his eyes at Greg. “My brother sent you.”

And that answers that question: Mycroft is behind this, in some way. Greg almost growls. What had been immediately obvious to Sherlock becomes obvious to Greg; that sense of triumph he’d felt from Mycroft really had been there, really had meant something. The last thing he wants in a situation like this is to be stuck between the Holmes brothers. Which is precisely where Mycroft has positioned him. _What the fuck, Mycroft?!_

“What?”

“That’s not your tie, although I imagine he fancies it flatters your eyes more than his.”

Greg cringes. That’s exactly what Mycroft had said when tying it around his neck.

“And that’s definitely not your shirt. Today is your day off, and you certainly wouldn’t be dressed like this if you’d been the one to dress yourself. He gives you his clothes. He dressed you,” Sherlock finishes with a sneer.

Greg is taken aback, but it’s not as though he’s never seen this sort of mood from Sherlock before. Just... not this sort of grief. He’s never looked this bad, not even right before he’d finally gone off to rehab that last time. He looks ready to simply give up.

“What happened?” he asks again, gently. He’s using his “soothing the victim” voice, and he’s sure Sherlock knows it, but Sherlock doesn’t do more than scowl at him and grab a sheet of paper off the coffee table, handing it to Greg. He then leans back against the couch, crossing his arms and still scowling. Scowling seems to be better than devastated and ready to give up entirely.

Greg looks down at it, realizes it’s a note. From John. To Sherlock. _Oh God, is this a “Dear John” letter?_

It is. Sort of. It’s short and tries to be reassuring, but it mostly fails, even to Greg, who isn’t the one in a relationship with him. Seems that Sherlock isn’t the only one about ready to give up. 

_What the hell happened between them?_

John hadn’t bothered to sign the note, but his handwriting had obviously been shaky at the end. He’d been upset, and he has left, off to somewhere to try to get his head straight, according to the note. He thinks he’s been hurting Sherlock and he doesn’t want to keep doing that--clearly he hadn’t thought much about how much running off would hurt Sherlock. He tries to be reassuring that he’s not leaving permanently, and he includes what Greg assumes is meant to be a reassurance, ‘Stuck with me, remember?’

It doesn’t seem very reassuring to Greg. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do here.

“So, he’s gone... where?” he asks, eventually.

Sherlock is frowning down at his hands, picking at the fabric of his dressing gown. “I don’t know, ask my brother. Far. Very far from here, I can barely feel him in my head.”

“Well, maybe it’s for the best, you know? If what he says is true.”

Sherlock jumps up and paces around the room, kicking through the strewn papers, heedless of the possible damage he may be doing to his own feet.

“How can him being _not here_ possibly be for the best, Lestrade?”

Greg watches him pace, and shrugs. “Maybe you both need a little breathing space. It’ll be good for you both, to be on your own for a bit?” He doesn’t mean for it to be a question, but it comes out that way.

“I don’t like being on my own,” Sherlock mutters. Greg is pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear that, so he says nothing. Sherlock continues to pace, hands twisted in his hair.

“Is this because of... that thing that happened?” Greg asks. He’s not sure if he’s trying to draw Sherlock out of his own head for a bit, or what. Distract him? Maybe they’ll all get really lucky and a good case will turn up before Sherlock gets self-destructive. Well, more self-destructive. 

John’s really the only one who can get him through those moods well, and Greg isn’t sure John’s up to dealing with that right now. Things have been off lately, that’s for sure. Obviously, as John has done a runner, and John is the last person Greg would think of as choosing to run from his problems rather than dealing with them head-on. There’s a lot here he must not know about; and he’d thought he knew a lot about these two. He’s known Sherlock for several years, and John is someone he considers a friend despite knowing him for far less time. He thought John had told him plenty about the bond he shares with Sherlock, but that apparently is not the case.

“What thing that happened?” Sherlock replies, cagey.

“Mycroft told me, you know.”

“Fucking Mycroft,” Sherlock mutters. And this time, Greg knows he was supposed to hear it, so he doesn’t rise to the bait. Mycroft is more than capable of defending himself against his brother’s barbs--’slings and arrows’ is their favorite game. He’s frankly glad neither of them really has an army, or else the whole world would be their battlefield.

They make Greg glad he only has normal fights with his siblings.

“Come on,” Greg says instead. “Go get dressed. We’ll get Chinese. You can get spectacularly, stupidly drunk and pass out.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t care. Do it anyway.”

“It’s not even noon.”

“Mid-day drunk, those are the best, especially when you’re... like this.”

“No.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks at him, scowls.

“Come on. It’ll take your mind off things for a bit.”

“No it won’t.”

“Well you can pretend it does. And I won’t make fun of you when you’re drunk. Promise.”

“Fine.” Sherlock stalks out of the room, towards his bedroom, still scowling.

That was shockingly easy. This probably isn’t going to be a fun lunch. But John would be happy, knowing he’d managed to get Sherlock to eat a bit. So that’s good, anyway. Someone has to try to take care of the man, with John not around--and he’ll have to ask Mycroft where John has gone, and why Mycroft agreed to help him with that--and it looks as though it’s back to him to do it.

Greg wants to text John, tell him he’s really fucked things up this time, but he doesn’t. The way John sounds like he’s feeling, from his note, that wouldn’t be helpful at all. So he’ll try to pick up the slack as best he can, for now, with Sherlock. And hope that John gets back soon.

He wants to text Mycroft, tell him he’s really fucked things up this time as well, and he still isn’t handling things right, with Greg or with Sherlock.

\----

He ends up pouring Sherlock into his bed at some point after last call. Greg crashes on the sofa. 

He wakes up just before dawn with an awful crick in his neck and Sherlock standing over him, staring down at him with a wild-eyed expression. At least, Greg thinks it’s a wild-eyed expression, he can barely see anything.

“What?” he croaks, sitting up and trying to stretch his neck.

Sherlock keeps staring for a minute, until Greg stands to continue stretching. Their sofa isn’t the best place to sleep. In fact, it’s even worse than his own sofa.

The room is dim in the early light, and Greg squints at Sherlock, only really able to see his wide, pale eyes.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock? You OK?”

Sherlock shakes his head and takes a step back, just out of Greg’s personal space, and it’s odd because Sherlock is usually the one stepping into his personal space, not out of it.

“What, Sherlock? Spit it out.”

“I can’t tell how you’re feeling,” Sherlock says quietly, and it is possibly the strangest thing that Greg has ever heard come out of his mouth. This man, for whom emotions are an inconvenience at best, and a hindrance more often than not, seems confused that he cannot decipher how Greg is feeling.

“You--what?”

“I could see that you were dreaming,” he adds, but it’s almost as though he’s talking to himself and not Greg. “But I couldn’t tell what you were feeling. I have... grown accustomed to being able to feel what you’re feeling. It’s... strange.”

“Oh.” So he has no empathy without John nearby. Interesting.

Sherlock looks at him, expectant, and scowls when Greg doesn’t say anything more, turning and stalking away.

Greg sighs and slumps back into the sofa.

\----

The week passes in a blur. Greg remembers chunks of it, long swaths of work, of paperwork, of praying that the next case will be interesting enough to tempt Sherlock out of the flat, out of this strange and worrisome funk that he’s fallen into.

He remembers sitting up ‘til all hours, in John’s chair, as Sherlock paces and rants, or picks apart Greg’s entire life (he’s done that before, it’s nothing new, no new information he can really use to hurt Greg, and Greg just lets it roll off him, as he’s done for years). It seems to momentarily help Sherlock, as he collapses into bed for a few hours shortly thereafter, and Greg is able to snatch a three hour nap before he has to go to work.

He remembers the one time he is able to convince Sherlock to come out to a crime scene. Sherlock shows up looking as arrogant as ever, but there’s a slump to his shoulders that Greg is positive he isn’t the only one to see. 

No one says anything about it, however. Not even Anderson, though he does make his usual snipes, to which Sherlock half-heartedly replies. Still, half-hearted insults from Sherlock are worse than whole-hearted ones from just about anyone else, especially without John there to placate Anderson or snicker at Sherlock’s jabs; Sherlock’s snipes only serve to highlight John’s absence, somehow.

Sherlock looks at the body, the young man with the bullet hole just above his heart, scowls, mutters, “Obvious,” and leaves again.

When Greg staggers into the flat that evening, Sherlock has changed into the same pyjamas he’s been wearing since Greg had shown up at Mycroft’s behest and has curled up in his chair, arms wrapped around his legs, face a storm.

“Did you eat?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

“Well, I’m not going to force you to eat tonight. Go away so I can crash for a few hours before I have to be back at work.”

Sherlock looks up at him sharply. For a moment, his expression softens into something approaching concern before he hardens it back into the scowl he’s been wearing for days.

“Go sleep upstairs.”

“What?”

“Go sleep in John’s bed. He certainly isn’t around to care.” Sherlock seems to realize belatedly what he’s said, because he jumps up and stalks off through the kitchen and into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Greg only hesitates for a brief moment before trudging up stairs and falling into John’s bed; he’s asleep almost instantaneously.

\----

Greg doesn’t talk to Mycroft all week. And Mycroft, the great berk, only tries to call him once, on Wednesday. Greg, still simmering with anger for himself, for John, for Sherlock, at this whole situation and at Mycroft--who is at least partly behind it--doesn’t answer the phone, sending the call to voicemail. He knows that Mycroft will know that’s what he’s done, and he does it anyway, hoping it makes his ire clear.

\----

He’s shaken awake altogether too early on Saturday morning, and he blinks up at Sherlock while he tries to bring his brain on-line.

Sherlock is dressed.

Sherlock even has his coat on.

“Huh?”

“Kettle’s on, stay as long as you like, Mrs Hudson will lock up behind.”

Greg blinks a few more times. “Huh?”

“You should call Mycroft today; it’s been long enough that he’ll likely apologize and probably do whatever you wish to make it up to you.”

“Huh?”

Sherlock sighs, exasperated. “I’m leaving.”

“Where ya goin?” Greg rubs at his eyes.

“Where do you think?”

He thinks for a minute, and realizes that Sherlock must be going after John. “Oh.”

Sherlock smiles grimly. “Do me a favor and make my brother work for it.”

Greg snorts at that, and Sherlock turns and sweeps out of the room.


End file.
